


Men of Fortune

by thetrickisnotminding



Category: Leverage, The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 05:03:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15135689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetrickisnotminding/pseuds/thetrickisnotminding
Summary: Meetings for a drink.





	Men of Fortune

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to azarias for the beta.

1989

 

The pale fellow was late—or at least, distinctly not early. Worrying, considering how he'd walked out the last time.

But Hob had faith. They were friends. This touchstone in life mattered to both of them.

He took in the ambiance of the White Horse. Inn or nightclub, it was all the same. Every random sucker, every background conversation, was the same with just a bit of new paint. Felt good. Felt right. People don't change. Hob himself had only ever seriously changed his mind once in 600 years.

Hob kept an eye on the door, but the next to walk into the club was a young American soldier. The colored lights were a bit brighter not far from Hob, so the young man stepped nearer to fumble through his wallet. Hob could see him getting out an identification card--which had another identification card behind it.

"Careful you don't get those two mixed up," Hob said cordially.

The boy whirled. Hob stayed in his seat. The kid smiled sheepishly. "Still have an old one from back home"

"Older card with an older birthdate, I'm guessing? Nothing to be ashamed of. I've faked identification in my time." Had he /ever/. "And the drinking laws on your side of the Atlantic are odd anyway."

"All legal here, though, right?"

"Certainly. Everything above board. What brings the U.S. Army to the White Horse?"

"One of them… coordinated training exercise things. My old JROTC instructor recommended me." The boy extended a hand. "Eliot Spencer."

Hob shook. "Robert Gadling. I'm waiting for an old friend of mine, but he's late, so let me buy you a drink, as I hope to be bought one."

Later, Hob would try, briefly, to explain to himself how the thought had occurred to him. His success would be so-so. Certainly, Hob was dealing with a lot of memories and a great deal of personal investment on the line as he sat drinking with the boy, and certainly, he’d always believed in passing a good thing on, but on the whole, it was probably for the best that Hob Gadling rarely felt the need to justify himself to anyone, because he’d just said it.

"Buy you another in 5 years' time, if you don't mind rendezvousing."

Eliot looked incredulous.

"Well, you're clearly a world traveler who likes his beer," Hob said. "Just remember not to die."

 

1994

 

And just like Hob had guessed another meeting aright, Eliot did, in fact, show. His order came as a surprise.

"How did a nice young Yank pick up a taste for the best stuff in Zagreb?" Hob asked.

"Bad breakup," Eliot replied.

"Must've been bad. So ... that significant-pause ‘coordinated training exercise’ led to professional progress?"

"Sort of. Why're we doing this?"

"Thought it might be interesting. I like good company. Definitely did when I was a soldier myself. Why're you doing this?"

"I don't like being the kind of guy who says he'll show and doesn't."

Hob noticed the boy’s particular grammar on the subject, but decided not to press. "Well, good choice not dying yet."

Eliot raised a brow. "It's a choice, is it?"

"I've always thought so."

"Lot of people making terrible decisions, then."

"Always thought that, too. Suckers."

"Don't like people much?" Eliot asked, clearly ready to be sympathetic on that score.

"I love people. That's why I wish they weren't suckers."

Eliot acknowledged that. "Trouble with a lot of people is not paying attention, I figure."

"I suppose that could be considered a trouble. Of course, the way some people will just gloss over things can be handier than you think."

"Especially to the person who's actually looking?"

"Maybe."

"So do other English people ask you where you're from a lot?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You've got a very indistinctive accent."

Hob smiled. "Not when I don't want to. But, for an American who doesn't exactly go for that Mid-Atantic talk himself, sounds like you're quite the linguistic prodigy."

"Heard the word a few times. But really, practice'll get you almost anything." Eliot's look became reflective for a moment, just shy of uncertain, but it passed quick.

Hob raised a pint. "To wherever practice takes you."

 

1999

 

The smell. That's what Hob would remember about this meeting. She'd be 'round soon, or she'd been 'round lately. 

And a military career, which as far as Hob could tell was formally over, was not enough to explain why Eliot Spencer reeked that much of Death's perfume.

They'd said little. Very little, relatively. Eliot prided himself on his punctuality still, but he 'had work.'

Hob didn't want to think about what that work was. He could, at least, tell himself that no matter who had peeled apart a soldier-boy and found a gun inside, Hob certainly couldn't have stopped them. You can't stop most things like that. 

 

 

2004

 

"Cooking class?" Hob asked

"Yeah. Used to take it in high school. Recently I… well... met a chef that got me back into it."

Ah. An old habit to fall back on. That was natural enough. And onions were damn well a better smell, he'd admit that.

What he said was, "Sounds good. The new haircut suits you."

"Thanks. It's... it's good to see you, man. Sort of," Eliot said.

Hob nodded. "It's good, every once in a while, to see an acquaintance from the old days. Even if, sometimes especially if, you don't need to see a lot of people from the old days."

There was a pause before Eliot nodded slowly. "And I don't want to rush off, but I have to warn you: I have a flight to Kiev in a couple hours. Gotta fetch something for the new job."

"New jobs are good."

"They pay the bills."

"Always good to stay in the black with the butcher, the baker ... the ammunition maker?" Hob's look became questioning. Of course, even chance the bloke could handle all three tasks himself.

Eliot shook his head. "I don't like guns."

Hob nodded. Well, he was hardly the only man in Hob's social circle with self-loathing issues. Good to see him not pointed in quite the same direction. At the moment.

 

 

2009

 

“So, enjoy any Balkan cuisine lately?”

“Kinda lately. On a job. Good tea.”

"Are you still working in retrieval?"

"Some. But lately I've been doing this consulting thing, too. I've got...colleagues."

"Having different professional interests can be good." Hob had pioneered whole new professions when the ones he had got monotonous. Whether colleagues were a good thing for Eliot, well, that depended.

"Revisiting previous collea--"

"--No," Eliot interrupted firmly, then took a sip. "Nothing serious. Just... a nerd, a diva, a lunatic, and a drunk."

"Partial to the drunk already," Hob said good naturedly, raising a pint.

The smile was equidistant from the boyish and the rattlesnake. "Well, we made him the boss."

Hob would never fully understand people who needed bosses, but he acknowledged their right to be so. “Pays the bills?”

“Oh, they're very, very covered. Finding all new kinds of bills to pay now, all new kinds of ways.”

Ah, the ups and downs of fortune. "Think it'll last?"

Eliot shrugged. "Putting up with it for now, so that they don't make a complete mess. Lot of it's always on the verge of falling apart, but we've done some good work.” The smile grew wistful. “Saved a horse, even."

“One could do a lot worse.”

 

 

2014

 

"So what's the job these days?" Hob asked, ready to hear what slightly related work Eliot had flitted to in order to get away from the colleagues--and possibly his own thoughts settling.

"Same job, same firm, new management."

Hob blinked. "Oh. The drunk...?"

"Retired. With the diva. The lunatic..." There was love in that smile. "She's doing great."

" ...That's good then. And the, what was it, nerd?"

The smile didn't change. "We're gonna kill him someday, but only us. Meanwhile he roped us into a side job: restaurant management."

One familiar reversion, at least. Sort of. "Guess it lasted, after a fashion." 

"It did. It will," Eliot said with very firm certainty. Then he paused, canting his head slightly. “Well, the failure rate of restaurants ain't exactly reassuring, especially with the heat we get, but the rest of it. Us.”

Hob's nod was serious, but he added more lightly, “At this rate, they'll be doing haute cuisine via apps.”

Eliot sniffed. “Maybe. I'm trying to get more tolerant of the techy-stuff, with enough practice.”

“Good for you. Technology's great. Keeps us from being a bunch of filthy peasants choking on brazier-smoke.”

“I'll try to keep that in mind when somebody's doing a weird little dance about his view of the modern age.”

Hob raised a pint for an abbreviated version of that odd, memorable old toast. "To absent friends and lost loves. May each of us give the devil his due."

Eliot toasted, but remarked, "Man's been overpaid already."

Hob began to reflect that he might actually know a changed man. How annoying.

  
  


 


End file.
